


Sara Said

by fetalfailure (bossers)



Category: Original Work
Genre: References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 16:52:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15175124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bossers/pseuds/fetalfailure
Summary: Something I wrote for myself after some very bad things happened to my D&D character.





	Sara Said

She can’t bring herself to touch the food left unfinished, and the chairs remain untouched even though the rest of the room she’d rented had been rendered a mess from a brief fit of anger that sent the ceramic lamp to the ground in an explosion of pieces. The words Belphegor etched in the wall stay distinctly unknowable, mocking her, a final stamp declaring how insufficient she is.

With her back against the wall, Sara sits with several ruined papers, another drink, and her gun. She drags the fountain pen too hard again and it bleeds ink over the page. Briefly, rage makes her tremble, but in moments the wash of self–loathing smothers it. Every little mistake feels like a momentous failure in the wake of Eater’s passing. Again she throws the paper to the side and resumes staring alternately between the Hebrew on the wall and her sidearm, which sits neatly between her legs.

“You really are a piece of shit, huh? Managed to get someone else to ruin themselves for you? You suck the life out of people. Just like–“

The chiding voice is drowned out when she slams her palm into her forehead, desperate to make it stop. Moments pass where she looks at nothing, staring in haze at the seam of the wall and floor, but inevitably her gaze slips up to the mysterious words.

“Idiot. Ignorant, no good murderer. You killed him, just like you killed all those people in Africa, and that wendigo man, and Of the Skull, and the boat man and–“ This time she sobs into her hand, hiding her face from the empty room. The voice still rambles, but she can drown it briefly with the sound of her own pitiful sniffles. The tightness in her chest clenches harder, threatening to cave in her ribs as it spreads, but there’s no relief from the tension that binds her body.

“You like it. That’s why this keeps happening, you like making other people suffer, that’s why you don’t just kill yourself and let everyone else live in peace. You’re a curse, a Trapps, a mistake.”

With a shaking hand she touches the handgun, coiling her palm around it. The motion is familiar and full of warm memories. Whatever loathing she’d had for the Program then was hard to hold onto in the face of sunny smile District. The warmth sinks as desperately painful memories of his limp form suspended by a chain batter her. Her hand is shaking now just like it had been then when she failed over and over to undo the lock that bound him. Even as the water had turned a muted red, she just kept failing.

With her free hand, she wipes away the mess of tears that blur her vision. She can feel herself sinking deeper, slowly, into the pit of suicidal fantasy. She can picture the release of death, brains splattering out against the wall behind her. It’s a freeing thought briefly, but then a hole opens up in her gut as Jack’s words echo back. “There are people that depend on you that you bring down with you if you die an early death.”

Gripping her skull painfully tight, she grits her teeth against the whine of a fresh mountain of sobs clawing out of her throat. The voice pipes up again, “You’re going to let everyone down anyways. You like it. You like it. You like it. You like it. You–“

She slams her hands, both empty and the one with the gun against her head, mentally raging back, “Please!” Brief silence fills her and she sinks into her own arms, holding herself in a mock version of the way Cecil comforted her that night when Eater first revealed Hell’s dirtiest secret. Memories of how sickened she was whens he came to on the boat. Boots and hands slick with blood. She recalls the grim determination of Putting Of the Skull down, heart full of brutal satisfaction that the people he’d hurt would rest a little better in the grave.

“So you liked it.” The feeling of rage, bright and burning is easiest to remember, because if she’s honest, truly honest with herself, it never goes away. It’s always lurking in heart, savage and hungry, kept blazing with the scraps of resentment and bitterness she feeds it everyday. When she indulges it, there’s nothing else. The closest she’s ever come to inner peace is letting herself sink down below the roiling tide of anger. But always eventually she comes up for air and finds nothing but ruins for letting it off the leash. Nothing but regret and blood and more self–hatred that are all used to feed it again.

Now the gun feels like dead weight in her hand. She drops it, listens to it clatter on the wood floor and prays for it to go off and decide her fate. It denies her. Looking back up at the Hebrew on the wall, Sara weeps weakly a little longer. But inside she grabs hold of her wrath and wrenches out into the light. Taking all her sorrow and all her prayers, she feeds it all these and the terrible things she’s seen, and then finally Eater’s name and all its memories. Fat and swollen, it understands her fully, sinking deep to simmer and broil. She’s never been a good person and never been good at doing good. But she’s always been good at hating. A gift handed down from father to daughter that she finally intends to put to work.


End file.
